


And Angels Wept

by xxwrote_my_way_outxx



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gay, Honestly a memorial to my favorite show, It's A Complicated Russian Romance, M/M, Multi, RIPGreatComet, straight - Freeform, totally didn't cry while writing this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-13 02:34:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11750268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxwrote_my_way_outxx/pseuds/xxwrote_my_way_outxx
Summary: And when the great comet came down, there was a question: Would they live, or would they die?





	And Angels Wept

**Author's Note:**

> This is en memoriam to my favorite show, Natasha, Pierre and The Great Comet of 1812, which closes on September 3rd 

And when the great comet came down, there was a question: Would they live, or would they die? 

Pierre wasn’t sure what the answer to this way. Was he supposed to care? In his time of being alive, he had been through a loveless marriage and he lived only to see the outcome of the war. He survived to watch everyone else truly live. But now, here he was, sitting on his worn out fur cloak with a woman who looked passed his philosophies and his money and simply sat there, leaning on his shoulder and breathing in the same air that he exhaled. She had her hand in the pit of his lap along with his own, gripping onto him tightly as if he were her sanity and was the only thing that was keeping her there. How incredibly tragic it was for them to find solace in each other, and love, when love is also what brought them their misery. He simply leaned his head against hers and watch as the golden spray of lights nearly blinded them, the cold Russian air not feeling as cold as it should, and he thought about just this moment, the smell of salt and sweet perfume that lingered off of his new friend, and the way that she comforted him, he decided; he would never be this happy again. 

And in the fields of Petersburg, Anatole had found his way to the balcony of his house. Admittingly, he was drunk, as was his lover who was sitting right beside him on the balcony. His head was rested on the other’s shoulder, nose buried in his rough black hair as he swirled the wine in his glass. In his drunk wave, Anatole felt content. Content was something the young prince was not used to feeling, but the alcohol and the presence of a man who cared about him enough to bandaged him up and chill his bruises when he hurt himself over Natalie Rostova was enough to make him feel warm and safe as he watched the ball of fire and rock ascend onto the earth, feeling no fear in his heart. How could be scared when the only man in the world who would protect him to the ends of the earth was sitting by his side? If the end of the world would come, so be it. Dolokhov kissed his forehead. 

Helene was alone. This was not a feeling that she was used to. Whenever she would leave Pierre, she was always surrounded by dozens upon dozens of men who would bathe her in her sick version of love or attention, keep her company from a men who she couldn’t care for if she tried. But what was she to do when Pierre left her? Pierre left her for one girl. A charming girl. How could Pierre find love in one woman when she couldn’t find love in a thousand men and women? A spiteful part of her that she wouldn’t admit to hoped that the comet charred him off the face of Moscow.

The quietness of the house made Mary’s heart feel cold, though she warmed up once her brother had come out from the referenced house and sat with her on the hill in the backyard, waiting for permission to sit beneath the blanket with her. “Wine, ma cheri?” He asked her in a soft voice. The generally pure woman took the glass and twirled it between two fingers for a few moments before she said, “Yes, that’d be nice.” She sipped the drink and pressed her arm against Andrei’s, and she gazed at the light in the sky, inhaling deeply. She accepted this. Hopelessness filled her heart as her measly life flashed before her eyes. She was not married, she had no children, she was never allowed out of the house, and her brother got to see all of Russia. Their ailing father was blissfully unaware of the disaster that would strike the earth and she was left, still suffering, still alone. Still nothing. Yet, there was a calm peace that washed over her. She was nothing. She had nothing to lose. Others had everything, and they would have nothing after this. They were all nothing in the end.

What was the grand dragon of Moscow supposed to do when the world was supposed to end and her fiery temper couldn’t even save the hearts of either of her god-children? She killed Natasha’s chance at a love that she had formed, but she also killed Sonya’s hope of ever having a friend again. She disgraced the family. She disgraced her god-daughters. She disgraced herself. But she couldn’t pity herself. Marya Dimitryevna was not about pity. Whatever would come would come, so she sipped her vodka steadily, put the flask down, and continued to knit, humming a melody to herself that nobody could hear.

And Sonya was sitting right outside her door, a soft cloak pulled around her equally soft features as she saw the glimpse of light that shined across the sky. In her heart, she knew that what she did for her friend was the best, even though she knew what she did would never be forgiven. Her heart ached and her stomach churned, but the night she burned the letters reminded her of the way that the comet would burn the earth. It would scorch it, but from the ashes would rise something new. Something more beautiful. People could suffer, but the earth will prosper. And for Sonya, she herself was people, and Natasha was her beloved earth. 

And when it came down, the earth shook. Crackles of fire and debris rose into the sky, the wind blew away the dust and the ashes left. 

And they were a God, and angels wept.


End file.
